


Reference Point

by TropesfromtheBarricade (ShitpostingfromtheBarricade)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Get-Together Fic, M/M, No other references to Hamilton I just suck at summaries, a bit satirical, alternating pov, because they're all idiots in their own special protective ways, borderline crack fic, definitely tropey, literally ten different perspectives I'm not even kidding, really it features the entire cast of the amis, we all sacrificed something today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/TropesfromtheBarricade
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire are a powder keg about to explode, and the Amis do what they can to lighten the load.Warnings:alcohol mention





	Reference Point

**Author's Note:**

> Yes that was a mf Hamilton quote.
> 
> Lots of love to my nearest and dearest [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) for beta-reading!

“I’m so sorry,” the concierge informs Enjolras apologetically, “but our last room only has one bed.”

Enjolras is stubborn at the best of times and when sharing a bed is an absolute mule, hogging blankets and kicking at anyone who dares deny him. In combination with Grantaire’s contrariness, Feuilly can already tell that this is a recipe for disaster.

“You know,” he offers, “I’ve shared with Grantaire before. Enjolras, why don’t you switch with me and take the twin room I have with Baz?”

Grantaire and Enjolras both turn from the front desk, faces twisted in uncertainty. The concierge herself gives him a relieved smile.

“Are you sure?” checks Grantaire dubiously.

“Positive,” Feuilly responds. “I’ve shared beds most of my life, and you’re more courteous than most—that is, if you don’t mind?”

It would have been nice to have his own bed, but it’s no big deal—all in the name of a higher cause. 

A weak smile is still a smile; Grantaire must be more exhausted from the car ride than Feuilly’d realized. “Yeah, no, not at all. Sounds great.”

—-

It’s a good thing that Bossuet shows up when he does, because Grantaire and Enjolras are right in one another’s faces shouting as if their lives depend on it. Their noses are close enough to touch, and he can hardly imagine what might have happened had he arrived at the bar even a minute later. 

“Grantaire!” 

The man in question turns to him, scorn quickly turning to annoyance, and _okay,_ that’s no way to treat a friend keeping you out of harm’s way now, is it?

There’s a beer that practically has Bossuet’s name on it behind the counter, but bros before booze—even when aforementioned bros are being moody assholes. Undraping Grantaire’s jacket from the chair, he pulls it over his friend’s shoulders and tugs at the brunet’s hand, waiting expectantly for Grantaire to break his freshly-resumed glare.

It isn’t until they’re being kissed by the cold autumn air of the street that either of them speak.

“So, um. Sorry about that.” A hand rakes through Grantaire’s curls as he huffs.

“No worries,” assures Bossuet tiredly. “Anything to keep Musichetta from having to deal with working bloodstains out of hardwood, yeah?”

A beer would have been really nice, but avoiding catastrophe can be too.

—-

“It’s fine, really, I’ve been sitting down too long anyway,” Combeferre insists, “and I’m tall enough to reach the top shelf.”

Enjolras’s lips purse as his eyes dart between Combeferre and Grantaire. “You’re certain?”

“I am.” The storage closet in question is far too small for any two people who are uncomfortable with one another, and Combeferre knows for a fact that this one in particular has a finicky latch. The last thing anyone needs is Enjolras and Grantaire shut up together in close quarters for an extended period of time. “It’s no problem at all,” he reaffirms, squeezing Enjolras’s arm as he passes the blond.

Two and a half hours later when the door is finally worked open and they are released, Combeferre really does feel as though he and Grantaire have grown closer from their experience.

—-

Jehan has been in Grantaire’s apartment for five hours now, and it’s not that Grantaire’s confessions aren’t inspiring—in fact, they’ve been the root of an entire chapter in Jehan’s latest anthology—but _five hours_ of feverish murmuring can only provide so much inspiration.

“And his hair—” Grantaire starts.

“Like the sun,” Jehan tiredly finishes.

_“Like the very earth below,”_ Grantaire corrects. “A constant, a reference point, the thing by which all things can be measured and compared. And all fall short in comparison to his glory, his magnificence, his absolute radiance and scale—”

Grantaire’s feelings have been painfully obvious to anyone who’s known him for more than a handful of days—excepting Enjolras, of course. And as Enjolras was the only other person free today, of course it was Jehan’s civic duty to eir third closest-friend to watch over him and make sure his feelings aren’t revealed to the object of his affections.

But again, even as a Romantic, even as a _friend,_ these things do get rather exhausting.

—-

“My nephew needs looking after,” Enjolras confides to the room. “Normally I’d do it, but it’s the day of our protest, and—”

“And you can’t miss that,” jibes Grantaire. There’s a sarcastic swing to his voice already, and it’s going nowhere good, nowhere fast.

“I’m free that day!” Marius volunteers. He knows everyone else plans to go to the protest—everyone but Grantaire—and he’s willing to deal with the repercussions of a missed shift to avoid those potential consequences.

“Are you sure?” Courfeyrac asks. “You still have that manual to translate, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” he responds, “but Julien probably remembers me from the animal rights rally, so I’m sure we’ll get along supremely.”

Enjolras doesn’t look as certain, but Enjolras doesn’t know _everything._ “He can be a handful.”

“I have two hands!” Marius exclaims, displaying them. “Really, Enjolras, it’ll be fine.”

Blond eyebrows raise skeptically, but the man nods nevertheless. “Then it’s settled. Thank you, Pontmercy.”

(It is not even moderately okay, but the transcript is done before midnight, and that’s all that matters to the publishers.)

—-

When Grantaire isn’t actively antagonizing Enjolras, he is incredibly witty, smart, and kind.

To be fair, he’s still rather witty and smart when he is actively antagonizing the leader, but kindness tends to give way to cutting jabs and wildly overdramatic sweeping generalizations, so being with Grantaire in literally any other setting is always significantly more pleasant. 

Which is why, despite that they’re on their way to what is sure to be a multi-hour study group, Cosette is suddenly waiving her need for caffeine.

“I actually really don’t like this place,” she informs Grantaire as they come to a sudden halt in front of its doors. “Can we go to, erm...Starbucks?”

“‘Starbucks’?” He raises his eyebrows at her. “Starbucks you protested last month ‘Starbucks’? Starbucks on the far-ass other side of campus ‘Starbucks’?”

Starbucks where Enjolras is not visibly working the front counter through the glass front doors _right this second_ ‘Starbucks.’

“Yeah!” Despite her brightest affectations, Cosette can only keep up this energy for so long without crashing.

The dubious look remains trained on her another beat before they begin moving forward again. “It’s another kilometer until we can get our fix then, and we need to book it if we don’t want Jean being a bitch about being on-time again.”

She contains her groan, but only barely.

—-

“Hi, I’m Enjolras’s girlfriend,” Éponine tells Enjolras’s...cousin? Niece once removed? _Something._

Pretending to date Marius back when she’d still had feelings for him might have killed her, and she knows Grantaire is in so much deeper than that. As the honorary only non-Grantaire person available, the duty falls to her shoulders.

“So, how long have you two been dating?” the other woman asks, biting her lip as she looks Éponine up and down. 

“Six months.” She and Enjolras had agreed on two, but shutting down lesbians when she and Enjolras are as obviously gay as they are isn’t always that easy. Especially lesbians who are exactly Éponine’s type and reach out to run rather distracting circles around the rim of her glass with gentle, controlled movements and— 

“Oh,” the other woman deflates, withdrawing her hand from Éponine's glass.

Éponine expects Enjolras to correct her, but he remains silent beside her.

“Enj, whatever happened to that charming man you were telling me about last time I saw you?”

The man’s expression sours, and Éponine makes note not to bring this up to Grantaire.

“He wasn’t similarly inclined.”

—-

“I just don’t see what you’d even do,” Joly sighs, shaking their head as they move toward the kitchen for their coat.

“I could—” Here Grantaire stumbles. “Debate the points. Make his arguments stronger.”

“Enjolras isn’t looking for content-editing, R, he just needs someone to go over his structure and usage.”

“I’m great at that shit!”

Pulling on their coat, Joly raises their eyebrows at Grantaire. 

“When I apply myself,” their friend amends.

“Right. Anyway, Enj asked me—” Combeferre asked them, because he was unavailable and Enjolras was desperate enough to ask about Grantaire’s availability “—and it’s already been settled.”

Grantaire’s features fall into resignment. “I just don’t want you to have to miss date night.”

Oh, Joly doesn’t either, but everyone has sacrifices they must make. “It’s no big deal.”

The man’s apologetic glance does help, though. “Well, don’t forget your hat, it’s freezing out there...bitch.” 

—-

“You have class right now though, don’t you?” 

And yes, Bahorel isn’t a fan of lying to his friends, but he’s less of a fan of allowing Grantaire to suffer. 

“Nope, class got cancelled today.”

Also law is his actual archnemesis.

“Really?” Enjolras asks, expression turning confused. “Courf said—”

“Courf is a square,” Bahorel immediately accuses. “It’s just a study sesh. No new material or anything.”

It’s a court observation, but maybe Enjolras won’t know that.

“I thought there was a mandatory court observation today.”

Dammit.

“I mean, define ‘mandatory.’”

“Worth a third of your grade?”

Bahorel snorts. “Maybe for _losers.”_

“And people who can do math.”

“Mostly losers,” Bahorel waives. “Look, go off to whatever poli sci class you have—”

“I don’t have class today.”

“—and take the day to yourself.” Damn JBM for messaging the whole chat. Except Musichetta for her hot cocoa, and Joly for being perfect, and Bossuet for existing. “I’m free, and I know about a thousand ways to get R outta this funk. Just trust me.”

Enjolras eyes him warily. 

“Seriously, go do your thing.” Bahorel reaches out to rest a hand on Enjolras’s slender shoulder. “We’ll be fine.”

His grade won’t be, but what lawyer really needs Statutory Law 203 anyway?

—-

The night is cool and clear, and Courfeyrac is only barely drunk when he spots them.

Enjolras and Grantaire are seated side-by-side on the park bench, and _right,_ in the headcount that had followed the protest earlier today Grantaire had mentioned that he was with Enjolras. They’d been on the other side of town, and at that point no amount of uneasy glances could prevent whatever hell might potentially be unleashed between the two of them.

Still, Courfeyrac had assumed that they would have parted ways as soon as possible—they’d called to check in hours ago. Normally, even with multiple dedicated people running interference, Enjolras and Grantaire still find some way to aggravate one another (even if Grantaire’s primary complaint usually boils down to Enjolras’s very existence). 

Careful not to make a sound, Courfeyrac creeps closer to where they sit.

“That’s incredible, I’d had no idea,” he hears Enjolras confess.

On the other side of the bench, Grantaire shrugs. The man’s entire upper body is splayed over the back and arm of the seat, which isn’t altogether out-of-character, but what is is that Enjolras has allowed some space between himself and the opposite side of the bench. He remains taut and upright, but Courfeyrac notes that only one hand rests in its usual spot on the blond’s lap, the other between the two men.

_Weird._

Clearing his throat, Grantaire promptly changes the subject, as he is wont to do when faced with a compliment. “Stars are beautiful tonight. You almost never see them like this in Paris.”

Barely containing his sigh, Courfeyrac glances up. It _is_ a surprisingly clear night.

“They are,” Enjolras agrees, and is Courfeyrac imagining his best friend’s slow twist toward Grantaire? He has to know what it looks like. “You know what else is beautiful?”

Even in the pale glint of the moonlight Courfeyrac can see Grantaire turning shades, hearing the man’s breath hitch before mirroring Enjolras’s lean. “What?”

Enjolras may be Courfeyrac’s best friend, but he is oblivious as _fuck,_ and Courfeyrac refuses to see Grantaire go down like this. Approaching ever-so-slowly, Courfeyrac finally leans in and makes his presence known.

“Me.”

—-

As Beauty and The Beast exit the meeting hand-in-hand, everyone but Bossuet exchanges knowing glances, quickly returning to their seats. The bald man has missed the cue and seems like he’s about to follow the pair’s lead, and Gavroche reaches up to grab at the collar of his shirt to yank Bossuet back. 

“Siddown.”

The man obeys, room falling silent around them.

“The Council of Granjolras has been called to order.”

Across the room, a muffled voice sounds. “I thought we were calling it ‘Enjoltaire’?” 

“No,” responds Combeferre without so much as a glance in Marius’s direction.

“Because it’s stupid,” Éponine adds from the back, twisting to prop her feet on the table in front of her.

“I like it,” comes the soft response.

“Not to interrupt,” Courfeyrac interrupts, “but we have some very immediate and important business to attend to? Did anyone else see this coming?”

A hushed murmur passes through the room, comprised by and large of headshakes and affirmations of surprise.

“Well duh,” Gavroche says with a roll of his eyes. “You fuckers can only cockblock for so long before they pull their heads out of their asses.”

“Gavroche!” Bahorel gasps before turning accusingly to the rest of the room. “Which of you assholes taught him that?”

“This is what you get for having _Marius_ babysit.”

The man in question sputters. “I would never—”

“Things just went so well with Julien," Joly shrugs without bothering to hide their grin, "we couldn’t pass on the opportunity."

Gavroche expects to be chastised by Éponine, even if it’s just going through the motions, but instead her head is thrown back in laughter while the rest of the room falls into silent contemplation.

“So what you’re saying,” Jehan starts, “is that our whole secret groupchat was for nothing?”

“Groupchat?” repeats Bahorel incredulously. “Do you know how many times I allowed myself to be cockblocked for those ungrateful shits? Like, I get that sex isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, _but it’s definitely some of our cups of tea.”_

Feuilly squints. “Didn’t you also fail a class?” 

“And?”

“Wait, what’s this all about?” Bossuet looks around the room with such naive sincerity that Gavroche almost smacks him.

“Enjolras. Grantaire. _Doing the do.”_

The man’s eyes widen. “Did someone really walk in on them...'doing the do'?”

"Well, no, but—" Courfeyrac shoots a concerned glance back toward his friend. “You saw them tonight. The stares, the flirty arguments, the secret smiles and weirdly-specific references that no one else understood..."

Bossuet's brow furrows as he squints. “Don’t they always to that?”

Courfeyrac’s “no” coincides with Gavroche’s “yes.”

The former huffs, crossing his arms. “Well, today they held hands, and that’s _definitely_ new.”

“Took them fucking long enough.”

“Gavroche!”

“You’re not my real mom,” he informs Bahorel, pushing himself off the edge of the table. “I’ve got shit to do, but if you lot come to any other earth-shattering revelations—the color of the sky, ingredients for a basic BLT, your first names—be sure to give me a shout, yeah?” 

Silence rings in his wake until— 

“What do you mean, _‘Courfeyrac’ isn’t your first name?”_

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of "Beauty and the Beast" I originally wanted Gav to call Enj "Pretty Boy," but the literal only title I could think of for Grantaire was "The Booty Snatcher," so unfortunately difficult decisions had to be made.
> 
> It's "Enjoltaire," I just thought it'd be funny to make the Amis disagree with everything Marius says on principle.
> 
> A BLT is a Bacon-Lettuce-Tomato sandwich, the basic ingredients for which (as you may have guessed) are 1) bacon, 2) lettuce, 3) tomato, and 4) sandwich bread.
> 
> Thoughts? Feelings? Opinions? I want whatever I can get. You can comment them below or send them to be at [my tumblr](%E2%80%9DShitpostingFromTheBarricade.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D). :D


End file.
